Another Goddamn Tapout

I was working on my lotto ticket this month.  I have a lot of stories to tell, gonna do some up proper eventually.  Self-publish, most likely.  The lotto ticket?  Not like the others.  I was going to omit queerness, make the main characters white, and follow a conventional thriller outline – sell out, maximize appeal to stodgy industry scum.  It was to be the last thing I bother trying to pitch, but I couldn’t hack it this month.  My brother came over for a big visit with his kids.  More than one person in my life is getting pressed by mental illness.  I just don’t have the time right now.

But man, I wanna get this done.  Any of it.  I’m tired of only going part of the way.  And as far as lamestream publishing, I need to try at least once.  I needs loot.  I’m sure the advances ain’t anything like they used to be, when they happen at all, but who knows?  That’s why it’s a lottery ticket.

I gotta pay off this fucken mortgage before the chaotic nature of this dystopia ruins my life, and the lives of the people that depend on me.  If it wasn’t for shitler, I’d feel a lot safer in slow and steady, but it ain’t like that anymore.  The job security I once enjoyed is a distant memory.  The evergreen advice of the Wutang Clan somes to mind again, “You can’t just get by anymore, you gotta get over.”

Man, FtB was dead as hell yesterday.  Wonder what it’s looking like as this post comes up? … …

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Delicious Monster Salad

A “fruit salad” to amurricans is a pile of fruit flavored gelatin or whipping cream with a bunch of random bite-sized fruits or fruit chunks within.  The gelatin version, like all the gelatinous culinary horrors of yesteryear, were a kind of display food.  The ideal was a shining mound of shaped gelatin, within which you could see delicate wonders suspended in an aeternal faerie danse.

There are images in art that evoke this visual to me.  Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights, and other works in that genre, the design of tanks at aquariums, the hordes of winged babies in El Greco and other baroque art, the hordes of ghouls and skeletons and yokai in horror comic art or that “Night on Bald Mountain” part in Fantasia, toy and candy vending machines, sets of action figures and dolls… You’ll notice this getting away from art into the artificial.  Piles of trash, gardens, tide pools, roadside puddles or culverts with floating litter…

When I was a child I’d dream sometimes of what it would be like to be underwater.  Can’t swim, can’t breathe, gonna die.  I know I’d visited a aquarium or two and I believe I was around eleven years old when I read Jaws.  Of course there were fish everywhere, and some of those fish were sharks.  They would eventually eat me alive, or dead if I’d been lucky enough to drown by that point.

There was a time around age ten when I would be awake half the night imagining monsters into every ambiguous shape of laundry or toys on the floor, seeing the Twilight Zone airplane gremlin in every rainy window, imagining a tall movie monster in the closet or any given hiding space.  I was living in a gelatin salad of monsters.

I suspect it was precipitated by watching cheap scifi and horror movies and TV shows.  I do not know what managed to end it.  Maybe whatever parent had to come give me the business managed to humiliate me hard enough that it broke the spell.  I don’t even know how long that was happening.  Was it weeks?  Months?  Pretty sure it was less than a year, in all.

Anyway, it’s all in good fun now.  Let Halloween never end.

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Birthday Foolery

The weekend of my forty-ninth birthday, my brother brought his young daughters to visit.  They have very high energy and we have degenerative disc disease, so they get away from us.  How do you yell at them to prevent reckless injury without sounding too angry?  I pulled it off, but was on the whole much less successful at reining them in than other adults with similar aged children in their charge.

It was bad enough that the morning after they left I had a dream about failing to keep up with one of them.  Don’t get squished, kids.  Don’t get squished.

As Whitney’s songwriter said, I believe the children are the future.  Teach them jeezis and tell them don’t be gay.  Er, however that went.  But srsly, having children at this spectacular turn for the worse in politics, in the environment, in human rights…  That’s a fuckin’ mess.  The only way I’m going to have to care for a child again is if a freak accident kills my brother and sister in law both before their children turn eighteen.

I think about love and obligation.  My family was black sheep plus black sheep, and love was far from our experience of family.  What does it mean to love those children?  To even love my brother?  It feels so remote, like the sort of feeling you won’t understand until it’s tested – and then you better hope you pass.  I probably will?  I feel bad about that question mark, like, to what extent did I inherit the Antisocial Personality Disorder from mom?  But I don’t feel very bad about it, so don’t cry for me.  Just puzzling out my feelings.

I went to the beach where they filmed Temple of the Dog’s “Hunger Strike,” but those tall beach grasses that Eddie Vedder was standing around in were nowhere in sight.  I think they got choked out by invasive blackberries.  Terns screamed and dove for fish, herons waded and spearfished.  The closest heron was surprisingly fussy, walking around with a fish, washing it in the water, waiting minutes before swallowing.  I saw the largest crabs I’d ever seen alive in the wild.  Not remarkably large, but still nice for me.

My husband made a very good cake.  My homeboy brought his kid around and he helped keep the wild girls occupied.  My brother didn’t have a breakdown.  Coulda been worse.

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Bucket o’ Frogs

Darren Naish is zoologist famous, and I follow his Tetrapod Zoology blog from time to time.  There he’s talked about his hobbyist efforts at increasing the population of frogs.  Since his own pond reached a point where it produced a surplus of tadpoles, he thought to donate those taddies to other people, carrying them hence in buckets.  This had a miserable failure rate, often 100% mortality in transit.

David Cronenberg’s movie ExistenZ featured virtual reality units that looked like a pulsating frog that plugged into your spine via a tooth on a string of intestine, if I’m remembering that right.  These were assembled in a shoddy factory with little conveyor belts of biological chunks.  That movie debuted in 1999, but I had almost the exact same imagery occur in a dream I had around 1987.

I was headed into a factory to observe things for some reason.  To work?  To gain entrance, one had to squeeze a woman’s naked breast one time.  I was about eleven years old at the time, you know what interests were percolating, but this was a cold and impersonal situation.  Was the woman even alive?

Inside the factory, there were conveyor belts of mutated and mutilated bodies and chunks of fish and amphibians, being used for I don’t know what.  The conveyor belts broke down and emptied into five gallon buckets half filled with water.  I looked into one.  I remember almost nothing else about this dream.

This one story factory did not have an especially high ceiling, and was also similar to the one from ExistenZ, but with less bamboo.  Me and my siblings had to walk long distances sometimes in Seattle, which meant passing many faceless little utility buildings that could hold any kind of business.  Maybe they were full of Daredevil ninjas distributing heroin for The Hand.  Maybe they had a bunch of scamway victims paying off their losses with light day labor, threading spiral binding into pamphlets for other pyramid schemes.  The one story faceless warehouse near you – what lurks within those doors?

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Platonic Inversion

My husband and I were discussing some issue he has relating to other people intellectually and he arrived at an idea that is not necessarily original, but was new(ish?) to us at the moment.  Hence this is something of a “brainjackin’” post, but I’m mainly using some of my go-to Philo 81 vocabulary to explain it.  My dude had initially spoken of it in terms of semiotics, which is a field I’ve been petulant about learning, because I have the same prejudices as the bitch that “citation need”ed the shit out of the semiotics wikipedia page.

My man said that it seems the most foolish people are often thinking in the most abstract ways, which is an inversion of what you’d imagine foolishness to be.  You would think foolery derived from simplicity in thought, but that it often comes from an advanced human ability to categorize.  For example, how would a deer feel about a bear?  It would recognize that as a dangerous animal and run away.  How does a human feel about a bear?  We immediately think of cultural images, which could well supercede our animal sense, and endanger our lives.  A bear will eat you regardless of how you perceive it, and I’m not saying every person eaten by a bear thought they were pallin’ around with Yogi or Gentle Ben, but some certainly have.  Even those who didn’t see the bear as friendly were still seeing it as a symbol rather than as a flesh and blood creature that will kill you on a lark.

When tapped for jury duty recently I had to watch a video giving a cursory review of unconscious bias, so I was in mind of it.  Unconscious bias is how we categorize people and other things we experience as a shorthand for judging everything and everyone we encounter on an individual basis – an ability that is literally prejudice but does have some practical utility in preventing us from feeling overwhelmed by the world.  Cultural icons and received wisdom can be direct sources of our biases.

What those videos don’t get into, because it’s unnecessary for their purpose, is that we can have biases about almost everything we do or experience.  Routines that save us the effort of thinking can get to the point where they replace practical thought completely.  If you know exactly what to say or do with every experience you encounter, sunrise to sunset, how prepared are you going to be for something outside your experience and understanding?

You meet somebody at a party that can easily talk with anybody about babies and relationships and work, but whose eyes glaze over when you mention music or art or filing for unemployment or how gender is a thing they are currently experiencing, or that you could go look in the corner of your bathroom right now and see a spider if you were so inclined, I dunno.  If you’re even slightly unconventional in any way, and you go among the banal, you will find out the limits of their ability to think real fast.

My dude tried to run a book club once, and all anyone had to say about any given story put in front of them was the same shit.  They sought the parts of the stories that matched certain expectations and hammered that button.  One person, after reading Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? said “It’s a modern retelling of the Persephone myth” like prose is all about simple answers, and didn’t bother contributing much after that.  The less people attended, the more pointless the book club felt, but the more people attended, the more superficial the treatment of the reading.

Plato’s Allegory of the Cave proposed that what we observe directly before us was less than real, that it was all debased shadows of the perfect concepts of what is and what can be.  That bear is a shadow of the ur-bear, the ideal bear who embodies bearness most perfectly.  One could take that as an early striving toward scientific understanding, that he was really saying we experience only a fraction of bearness and that one could understand much more deeply by using science not yet available to him – dissect the bear, measure its bones, compare them to the bones of relatives living and extinct, overlay the results from osteology with a tree derived from genetic characters, place that bear in its evolutionary context, run cognitive tests on it, compare its gut flora to those of coyotes and deer, etc etc.

I think it would be more accurate to say he was getting at a mystic view of the world, where abstract concepts were more significant and important than the reality that is in front of you – reasoning more important than empiricism.  But humans have a remarkable ability to devise cognitive shorthands that give us license to walk through life in zombie mode.  Those cognitive shorthands are abstractions of observed or communicated reality, ignorant of the specifics of what is actually there and even superficially apparent.

It might be that Plato was, in a thinky way, reaching for the simplicity of walking through life freed from thought.  If you have determined the ideals of how things are and should be, shadows can be dismissed as unimportant.  Now, thousands of years later, we’ve perfected that art of abstraction.  It turns out there is no truth to be found in ideals.  The realities that abstraction helps people ignore are the exact places where the world is burning; the abstractions are where the memedog sits saying “This is fine.”

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Brainjackin: Kiyoshi Kurosawa Good

Hey remember J-horror?  Japanese horror movies?  Who cares at this point, right?  There was a long-haired lady ghost, maybe a well, a video tape, a tiny boy in his tighty whities?  I dunno.  On the back of viral success of a few imported movies, Hollywood decided to milk the genre for a few bucks.  Attempt one was pretty successful, followed by nothing but suck.  Probably the coffin nail was the last iteration of hollywood’s the grudge.  Ill.

When this was going on, I became aware of the genre, but knew about the same as anyone in amurrica.  However, very early in my relationship with my husband, we shared our favorite movies with each other, and I discovered more.  There was a standout among Japanese horror directors that does not get much love in the USA, save from the extremely hip.  That’s Kiyoshi Kurosawa.

Did I say Akira Kurosawa?  Is that what you read?  Go back and reread that name.  It’s worth remembering.  Kurosawa means something like Blackmarsh, and is a fairly common name.  It ain’t like the highlander; there can be more than one.  Kiyoshi thinks of himself primarily as a horror genre director, but his work has so much virtue that he keeps getting tapped to direct arthouse movies, like Bright Future.  That film is fine, but lets allow the boy to do what he wants.

My husband’s favorite film by him is Cure, but a few others hold special places in his esteem as well.  Retribution is the first and unfortunately only one we saw in the theater.  Pulse is excellent and had a shit hollywood adaptation filmed in like, a community college in sarajevo after it closed for the night.

The guy is a feminist.  I don’t know how common that is in Japan, but the themes of certain other famous j-horrors are sometimes low key misogynist, so it stands out.  He doesn’t use the word, but in movies that are otherwise full of subtlety, he will sometimes stop the proceedings to underscore that women are full-on human beings whose lives do not depend on men, and whose lives matter.  Retribution features a scene of dark humor at the expense of a traditional-minded male character, Guard From Hell ends with the male and female leads shaking hands and parting ways.  He drives away in his car, she walks to the bus.  He was once tasked with making a titty film called The Excitement of the Do-Re-Mi-Fa Girls and made it without titties, getting into trouble with the studio, blacklisted for years.

That’s just one example of the ways he stands out from the crowd.  How do I describe what the movies are actually like?  He’s just one of the best movie directors in the world.  Sometimes his subject matter will keep you away.  Sometimes budget or other constraints have caused weakness in a project, like on Charisma, so I can’t say he’s perfect.  But when it’s all working right?  Easily as excellent a director as Stanley Kubrick, David Lynch, Danny Boyle, John Carpenter on his best days.

His movies don’t invade your space, hammer you with what they’re about.  They are quiet and reward paying full attention to the screen.  They make it hard to look away from the screen, drawing you in with something more than just suspense or drama.  It’s hard to characterize the art of making film out of sight and sound, out of medium and edit, of coordinating the work of others to create a single coherent story that transcends its subject matter to get right into your head.

My personal favorite was Retribution.  I hope someday a lot more of his older stuff becomes available in the west.  It’s hard enough to make the time to give a two minute song your full attention these days, and I’m asking you to watch two hour movies, so…  Make of this all what you will.

Kiyoshi Kurosawa good.

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How Fringe Figures Wield Outsized Influence

Had some people doubting my assertion that the gnu atheists significantly contributed to the rise of fascism.  My life is fucking microwaving my brain right now.  I’m having a bad time in part because people around me are having even worse times.  I shouldn’t be writing this right now.  I should be helping people I care about get thru their shit.  But I’m running out of queued posts and this is something I can generate a few words about.  So here I am, really profoundly not fucking feeling it, but committed to the bit of daily posting.

Celebrities advertise the positions they endorse.  Advertisement wins new converts, but importantly, it can reach the people who matter the most to global power – moneyed fuckoes who want to hear their power justified, who want a religion or belief system that exonerates them from the egregious injustice their privilege itself represents.

Remember the NYT puffing up the Intralectural Dork Web?  The Yooniversity of the Intellectional Durk Werb at Austin dot org?  Whatever that shit was called?  If you’re a big enough asswipe, you can make a bank fulla money just saying the fuckshit you believe, because the kochs or millers or rockefellas can give u a shower of gold.  A golden shower, if you will.

One thing feeds the other feeds the other feeds the other.  The game goes like this: get famous, say evil things, watch evil men line up to pay you for promoting evil that benefits them.  Via hyper-incestuous thinktanks and lobbies and yacht parties and media juntas, the thousand-headed hydra of conservative bobbleheads normalizes fascism and emboldens politicians to put that ideal into practice.

Dawkins et al were definitely part of that, and still are.  They spend more time promoting fascism now than fighting against oppressive religion.  He has become an absolute second stringer.  Fuckin’ Candace Owens and any number of rappers and standup comedians have bigger seats at the table than Dawkins now.  But I watched this happen.  We all did.

I’m just gonna assert again what I did the first time around.  Elevatorgate was one of a rapid-fire series of reactionary movements that helped convert misogyny into a broad tent fascist movement.  Misogyny was the starting point, but it eventually incorporated conspiratorial thinking and fringe beliefs, racism and xenophobia.  Amusing to think about old dicky wondering why o why his side includes the flat earthers.  Keep thinking about it.  Maybe you’ll figure it out before you die.

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Brainjackin: Kafka Good

There are things I wouldn’t know if it wasn’t for my husband.  I was broadly aware of Franz Kafka and his works, aware of what people meant by “kafkaesque,” but that awareness meant I wasn’t actually reading it.  I’m just sunshine and lollipops over here.  Unfortunately I am also horney on goffs, so I ended up married to one, and ended up reading some Kafka for myself.  Now I know – Kafka deserved the fame.  It’s absurd to say he’s really good actually, but he’s really fucking good, actually.

On my husband’s thirtieth birthday, he got the dying words of Franz Kafka character Josef K tattooed on his arm – “Wie ein Hund,” in the handwriting of Kafka himself.  My dude must be more goth than anybody in alles die deutschsprachige welt, because google image search for that quote comes back with nothing but cutesy inspirational dog pictures.  Yes, we know that means “like a dog,” but c’mon.  Sort yourself out, Deutschland.

One time I mentioned Kafka to a German lady and she had no idea who I was talking about.  Yeah, he was Jewish and lived in Prague, but he’s the most famous writer of the German language in much of the world for a reason.  Sorry, Goethe is cheesy.  Mann is lovely but I never heard of him until I was cohabiting with a goth.  The disregard for our boy feels antisemitic.  Do you like your own language or not?

So.  What’s good about Franz Kafka?  He owns your ass.  As an author, you want to communicate a feeling to somebody, make them experience it, and if it’s a feeling that cannot easily be expressed in words?  All the more impressive.  People will talk about the absurdity and futility in his stories, but they don’t mention the humor and the pathos.  It’s dark humor, the emotions are sad as hell, and when you’re experiencing both of these things and more, all at the same time, you are spellbound.

Unless you’re immune to art, which is a trait we can add to DickDawk‘s laundry list of character defects.  At least he has the courage to never delete his history of incredibly embarrassing tweets.

So far I’ve read The Metamorphosis, In the Penal Colony, and The Hunger Artist.  I know, I haven’t even read The Trial.  Fake Kafka fan.  Despite my high praise for him, I would not call myself a fan.  What he did as an artist was basically perfect.  Sometimes I can think of a quibble with even some of the greatest literature of all time, and I have no such criticism for Kafka.  However, did I mention my sunshine and lollipops?  When it comes to dark art, I am a tourist.  It isn’t for me, for who I am.  But it’s absolutely worth reading, regardless of who you are.  Just once.  Check him out.

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Lemme At Im

I wanna kill Jesus.

You know, I’d love to be a nicer person to all the good people of the world who happen to also be christian, but it’s mighty hard.  Mighty hard.  Shitbird preachers like to unfairly characterize atheists as all hating god &/or jesus, but I’m sure it isn’t true for most of you.  It is true of me.  Very true.

There is, on balance, more justification in the words of jesus for progressive ideas than for conservative ones.  Twisting that shit into prosperity gospel and gaybashing is twisting.  But I don’t care about the feelings of some ancient dead guy.  I care about the monster he created, and if I am to take his continued supernatural existence as true – as christians want me to do – then if I were to meet this superghost?

Fuck that motherfucker.  It’s on.

I’m that Dexter-flavored hypocrite who wants to kill the killers.  Atrocities make me mad, make me feel like doing something atrocious, and there are now millennia of horrors that happened on resurrected jeezy’s watch.  Culturally christian people who wanted to believe they could point to something older and better within their ancestors invented wicca, which – in culturally christian fashion – positions one’s people as the real victims in all of this.

Well, your people are the real victims in all of this, wiccans, but witches aren’t your people any more than they are mine.  Your people have been christian for a very long time, like their oppressors.  Christians oppress christians more than the Romans ever had a chance to.  These are the atrocities of which I spoke.  Of those that were tortured and killed for witchcraft, how many had any cultural context for being anything other than christian (or atheist, which can come into existence without being taught)?  Europe was utterly dominated by christianity during all of the witch hunting times.  Their victims were christian.  (oh yeah just remembered the muslims and jewish people, lol.  anyway…)

That’s not mentioning the much more frequent form of historical oppression they engaged in – sectarian warfare.  Genocidal violence, mass slaughter, women and children hung from the walls, cities burned – all for believing in jesus wrong.  I look at that shit and cannot feel schadenfreude about jerks I disagree with killing each other.  I see the torture and murder, and it infuriates me.

Somebody’s gotta pay, and if I try to pin down which sect shot first, that’s playing their game.  No.  I can do them one better.  These sects wouldn’t exist if jesus wasn’t a real supernatural guy that rose on the third day yadda yadda, right, Kenneth?  Only the magic version of jesus could have inspired these millennia of obscene cruelty.  And therefore, magic jesus must die by my hands.

Gimme the spear, centurion.  It’s time to stick this pig again.  For old time’s sake.  Just a jesus murdering party, me and my besties.  Who’s in?

Guys?  C’mon, it’ll be fun.  Guys?

 

 

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Brainjackin: Renaissance Cuties

We’ve all heard the names of various renaissance artists before, right?  Not being Italian, it’s easy to miss that some of those guys are known by nicknames.  Davinci, Caravaggio, Raphael, Tintoretto, Botticelli, and Bronzino sound similar enough to anglophones, but that list is the equivalent of Anglos being named Stratford, Carmichael, James, Spunky, Reginald, and Prettyboy.

In particular, Tintoretto’s nickname meant something like “little painter boy” and Bronzino’s “tan boy.”  There was a military dude from back then, who is best known now from being the subject of art – a sculpture bearing his nickname, the Gattamelata.  That shit means “honey cat.”

I suppose history will remember Cherilyn Sarkisian as Cher and Louise Ciccone as Madonna, so maybe we’re still at it.  But regarding those renaissance cuties, I didn’t know about it until my husband told me this information he had picked up in Art History.  Thanks, man.  I’m turning this tidbit into blog content.  The essence of brainjackin’.

What other historical figures are known by a nickname?

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